X-23 and Psylocke: The Road
by Syren Callista
Summary: Picking up immediately after the events of "X-23 and Psylocke: Made in Blood", Laura Kinney feels like she is spiraling out of control. For just a moment she truly felt awake and alive, and it terrifies her. Laura takes to the road, pursued by Elizabeth, and goes on an emotional journey inspired by the lyrics of "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence.


_This story takes place immediately after the events of X-23 and Psylocke: Made in Blood (Parts 1 and 2), but prior to that story's epilogue._

 **X-23 and Psylocke: The Road**

 **Part 1**

 **Now**

The girl stood in front of the sink staring down at her bloody forearm. The blades hovered just above her skin, steady and still. Their work had already been done, the crimson they'd spilled a vivid contrast to the white porcelain that would be left stained if left unattended. As she stared down at those blades hovering above her bare arm the distant sound of rich laughter invaded her makeshift sanctuary. That laugh which managed to pierce through the noise of the bar, distinct even against the cacophony of voices and music, and recognizable enough to reach her ears through the closed bathroom door. That laugh which made her doubt herself, her place, her purpose. And that laugh made the blades move, slashing across the top of her forearm again.

The pain was immediate, terrible, but most importantly, familiar. The blades were sharp beyond measure and she was precise with the cut: too shallow and it was pointless, too deep and she wouldn't feel it. She _needed_ to feel it. The wounds leaked fresh blood, spilling it over her pale skin, racing towards her underarm to drip down into the sink in a new cascade. The heat of it did not distract her from the pain that came next from the wounds, different than that which caused it. The second sensation, the healing, was not worse yet it hurt in its own way as her skin healed, stopping the flow of blood almost as fast as it began.

The pain was welcome for it was something she knew very well. Pain had been part of her existence for as long as she could remember. It had once been used to control her, to shape and mold her, until it became something she mastered. From that point on it was hers, something she could deliver onto others or, when need be, herself. It was something that she could do when she didn't know what else she could. It made her feel _something_ , but more, it made her feel something that she knew she could manage. It hurt, it always hurt, and because of that there was a strange comfort to it. When she felt numb it gave reminded her that at least part of her was alive; when she was overwhelmed it was something she could moderate. She never had to worry about hiding the scars, the secret of her quiet pain was hidden so deep that no one else could find it. It was hers and hers alone and sometimes it felt like it was the only thing she had.

The doors to the bathroom burst open as a pair of women pushed in, stealing her quiet moment, destroying her sanctuary with a flood of noise unrestrained by the now open doorway, the smell of their perfume, the alcohol they'd been drinking, and the merriment of their night out. The noise of their entrance masked the ' _snakt!'_ of the blades retracting into the girl's other hand, and her body blocked the sink. Not that she needed to; they paid her no mind as they headed to the toilets, barely noting her presence. They didn't see. No one ever did.

Laura turned on the water and watched it start to rinse her blood away, added soap to her fingertips and began to scrub and rinse her forearm clean. By the time she was done there was little trace of what she had done, the cuts on her arms already healed over, leaving only the phantom pain to linger on. She stared at herself in the mirror and waited for the pain to recede and for the numbness to return. And she waited longer and began to realize that it wasn't coming. The girl with the green eyes looking back at her in the mirror wasn't shutting down. This girl looked uncontrolled, desperate, lost. She looked away from the mirror unable to see what was looking back at her. There was only one place for her to go. As the last bloody trail swirled in the sink and began to gurgle down into the drain, Laura turned and reached for the door.

 **Before**

Laura raced back the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, the motorcycle roaring between her legs. Her hair whipped behind her like frenzied snakes and she drove like a person possessed, fleeing from whatever was behind her whether real or imagined. At some point the sound of sirens behind her registered to in her head but it only spurred her to go faster, effortlessly weaving in and out of vehicles like she knew what they were going to do before they did it. It was too dangerous to pursue her at the speed she was traveling at, and though word of her travel was radioed ahead, she was off of the highway before a true pursuit could be managed.

Moving from the highway to side roads forced her to slow down just a little bit, but not by much. The rest of the journey to the school was a blur, Laura's attention on the streets, traffic around her, birds flying overhead, every little thing that she could focus on to stay out of her head. The gates to the school were in front of her but she didn't slow. They began to open upon her approach and still she didn't slow; then the bike was through them with inches to spare. It roared up the driveway and towards the main entrance before she brought it to a skidding stop. The sound of it still reverberated as she dismounted and went inside the sprawling mansion that housed the school and dormitories.

Laura didn't run; her movement was restrained to a fast walk, and yet she carried with her an unmistakable energy that caused other students to part before her. Or maybe it was the dried blood on her face, hands, and every other exposed bit of skin. For once the mutterings and whispers of the others didn't bother her. She wasn't even listening to them as she climbed the stairs and headed to her room. She threw the door open and didn't bother to close it behind her. She headed straight for her closet and grabbed a black sports bag from where it hung on a hook, already packed with clothes and essentials. Next, she went to her dresser and opened each drawer in sequence, pulling small packages from each which she quickly put into her bag as well. She had never practiced this and yet she did it with a precision that seemed to demand it. A minute after she entered her room the bag was slung over her shoulder and she was walking out.

"What's the hurry, kid?" his voice came as she stepped out of her room.

Laura stopped but didn't turn around. She didn't answer immediately, instead debating on just how she wanted to answer that question. The truth of course was that she didn't want to answer it at all. She was given a brief respite from doing so.

"You come in like you're trying to race Blaze, covered in blood and smelling like death and decay. They about to be stormin the gates?"

"No." Laura answered, and turned her head to look at Logan.

He was leaning against the doorframe of her room with his arms folded across his chest. He was about an inch taller than she was depending on what type of footwear she wore, but from how he was slouched now it put them eye to eye. He was dressed in a way that he shouldn't have been: white collared shirt wrinkled and untucked, sleeves pushed the small bit they could go up his thick forearms. A tie was draped across his neck, the knot so low that he should have just taken it off. The dark dress pants fared better but clashed with the brown cowboy boats stuffed beneath them. His hair was as wild as he truly was and he looked like he was doing a terrible job at playing dress-up. Man, soldier, mutant, weapon, animal, X-Man, family; now Headmaster, the position seemed to be as ill-fitted as his clothes.

It was as if Logan knew exactly what she was thinking and he made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a grunt. They were thankfully past the days of staring contests and silent treatments, resigned to the fact that they were equals when it came to stubbornness. When they looked at each other they could see distorted mirror images of themselves in the other. She answered his question and volunteered nothing else. He already knew, but he had to ask.

"Where are you going, Laura?" Logan asked her, straightened from his slouch and looked purposefully at the bag that she now carried.

"I don't know," she answered immediately, and the speed in which it came was one of many indicators for him to know that she was telling the truth. This caught him by surprise and he didn't try to hide it, one bushy eyebrow creeping up.

"What are you running from?" he asked, a little bit of the gruffness gone from his voice. He took a step closer to her, then stopped. He looked at her right hand, balled into a fist, where tiny rivulets of blood welled up. It had felt like a long time since he'd seen her this on-edge and it gave him pause

Laura did not step away from him as he came closer but she had tensed almost imperceptibly. No one else would have noticed the change that came over her, and yet he had. She searched his face while trying to keep hers as neutral as possible, and did not even notice how her claws had partially pierced her skin. It was a slow moment of realization that at that moment she was incapable of projecting the blank façade that she so often wore. It was coming undone, and when she finally noticed the blood running down her knuckles she knew she had to leave now.

Logan sighed and shook his head, stared at her a moment more and then looked past her. Their relationship was complex beyond measure, and yet at a time like this there was a certain simplicity to it. Because he understood. He understood the urge to take to the road, to try to escape the moment, and to outrun those things which haunted him, even if it was only ever a temporary respite.

"Hell Laura, if someone hadn't had the brilliant idea to name me Headmaster I'd go with you," he said the titles as if he wanted to spit it out and leave it wherever it landed. Silence built for a few moments as he struggled with how best to handle this. Then an idea struck. "I always liked heading South when I needed to think. Go down to New Mexico. Plenty to do there to work it out." Just as he recognized himself in her, he also recognized, or at least thought he did, the need for her to resolve whatever was eating her up on her own. But he also gave her a seed of an idea that there was something to do. "I'll see you when you're back."

And then he left her, walking off down the hall.

Laura followed him with her eyes as he left her. She was relieved that he hadn't tried to stop her. He was perhaps the only person in the world who could come close to understanding her. She didn't know how much he understood and at that moment didn't care. She left the school and rode South fast enough to make the air feel cold against her skin. Some of the people she would pass would think she was chasing something. She knew she was running.

Logan returned to his office and slammed the door behind him. The business with Laura troubled him more than he'd been able to let on at the time. He walked around the large desk that he had inherited and dropped himself down into the highbacked chair. The leather groaned, the alloy-reinforced frame that was strong enough to support the weight of his Adamantium laced skeleton did not. He sat at the desk in silence for a few moments before he sat up straighter, opened the lower right drawer of the desk and snatched out a bottle of bourbon. He didn't bother with a glass, he drank straight from the source and found comfort in the burn down his throat.

It took him several long drinks before he satisfied himself that he had made the right decision about the girl. He had found plenty of moments of clarity in random pitstops and dives that he stumbled into for some reason or another. She would too. Encouraged at that thought he set down the bottle after one more drink and steeled himself to attack his new enemy: the stacks of paperwork and bountiful digital material that seemed to never abate. He rearranged the stack of folders into two and reached for one when he noticed the sound of footsteps fast approaching his door. He felt a growl forming in his throat.

"Not…" was all he managed to get out.

The door to the office burst open hard enough to splinter the doorframe, thrown open by a blast of pink-colored energy wrapped around a bright, nearly blindingly bright core. The force of the energy buffeted his office like the backwash of a plane's engines, and blew the folders right off Logan's desk. His howl of anger somehow managed to seem overshadowed by the storm of Elizabeth Braddock roaring into his office.

"Where is she?" she asked one simple question, an edge to her voice that seemed nearly as sharp as the katana she carried into battle.

Logan stared at her and for a moment the newly created mess in his office was forgotten. He knew there could only be one she that Psylocke could be referring to, and he realized that he might well have made a mistake in sending Laura off.


End file.
